


Before And After

by DemonAngelSakina



Category: Original Work
Genre: But the Author likes it, Co-workers, Disabled Character of Color, Inspired by Music, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Male Slash, No Dialogue, this is a bit old, to Partners, to friends, to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonAngelSakina/pseuds/DemonAngelSakina
Summary: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."= 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Before And After

**Author's Note:**

> OLD Author's Note ahead (from dA circa: 08/23/16):  
> This one actually hit me earlier this week, like a full-speed semi-truck while listening to Alannah Myles' "Black Velvet"--if you have not heard this song, then I assure you...it is worth the listen on YouTube.
> 
> I may do some more with the unnamed characters in this little one-shot, just gotta have the inspiration hit--hopefully not so painfully hard though.

Maybe it was his body that caught my eye--tall and gorgeously muscled like a model, with a rich tan that you only got from being born that way...and clothed just as flawlessly in those dark-hued Armani suits and silk shirts that he's so fond of. Training and sparring sessions were the only time I've ever seen him in anything that could ever be considered as 'dressed down'--I had trouble focusing whenever he was in the room in a suit...forget even thinking clearly when he has that body of his practically on display in those sweatpants and a T-shirt that's all-but glued to his torso. I've seen people stop whatever they're doing when he's in the room--he seems to command attention like royalty.

At first, I was jealous of him--I was shorter and lankier in frame...I had always had a good sense of self-respect towards my looks, my body, and I thought I dressed as well as I could...but next to him, I looked mediocre. He looked like the 'Prince' and that made me the 'Pauper' by comparison--his fancy suits against my pull-over shirts and worn out jeans. I would never look like I had just stepped off of a runway in Europe like he did--there was no way I could ever afford anything close to the high-end suits and Italian leather shoes that he always wore...yet he always stayed near me--he called me his friend.

Maybe it was how he moved that made me look twice--the man always carries himself with all of the confidence in the world. More than once I've heard people whisper that he "moves like sex on legs"--I can only agree with them silently when I see each slow, purposeful step of that easy swagger of his. Sometimes I thought he looked more like some kind of jungle cat on the prowl--others always compared him to a 'lone wolf', but I never saw that in his liquid grace. It wasn't hard to know what everyone personally thought of him--he had someone new in his bed every night...female, male...whichever caught his eye at the time. They called him a "heartbreaker" and he freely admitted to it...but, with how he carried himself, he had no trouble continuing to draw them in--what he wanted, he would simply reach for...and they would willingly give.

At first, I thought he was cocky and arrogant--I told him as much many times--but now, I know that he's earned every shred of that confidence that he radiates in every gesture and step. I was always confident in my own technological skills and my skills as a sniper; I even prided myself on how I could talk myself out of most kinds of bad situations, but I could never dominate the room like he does. I've heard people whisper that he "radiates pride and sex appeal like fire does heat"...and I've envied him for that...yet he always insists that we walk together or he's always standing at my side--he called me his best friend.

Maybe it was his voice that drew me in--that deep, sultry voice alone was more than enough to make anyone, female or male, willing to do just-about anything just to hear him speak in those slow, Italian-accented tones. I sometimes wondered how it happened that he--had to be either `by the grace of God or a deal with the Devil--had a voice as smooth and rich as the most expensive bourbon...yet with such a dangerous edge to it--like velvet sliding over a garrote.

At first, I hated hearing him talk because I knew that whatever came out would be some form of sarcasm directed at someone or some mission. I hated hearing the slow breath that he always takes before he speaks because I dreaded that he would turn that dagger sharp tongue of his on me, even though he never gave any indication he could or would. I hated how, even though he rarely raised his voice, his words always overshadowed my own softly-spoken ones around our entire team...yet he always speaks to me first and is content to draw the others' attention to me--he says that he has never let anyone else hear him sing before...and I've grown to treasure every second of hearing those slow country songs that he's so fond of.

Maybe it was his face that stole my breath--defined jaw sporting a neatly trimmed goatee, straight nose and profile an artist would adore the chance to draw; I wouldn't have been surprised if he were ever asked to pose for works of art...but whenever someone says something similar, he always laughs it off--a deep, rich sound that still sends shudders up my spine. His face is always framed by that thick, dark brown hair that he wears down to his neck--I admit, like most, I wondered if it was truly as silky and soft as it looked...but after seeing the brand name products he insisted on using, I didn't have to wonder anymore--for that price, those products could have turned my dreadlocks into a smooth mane that would make any supermodel green with envy.

At first, I hated his silver-screen-ready looks--next to him, lean and angular, I looked smaller and rounder faced...people called him "gorgeous" and called me "cute"--I hated "cute". I hated how he always wore that 'devil-may-care' smirk on those sinful lips of his--others spoke of how he would whisper promises of Heaven...but they knew from the start that, once the heat of the moment passed, everything would only end in Hell. Now...I want to always see him smile...because I am the only one who's ever seen what happens when the smirk falls away--he says that he trusts me as his partner.

I know what it was now: his eyes. No matter the walk or gesture...no matter the words or laughter or the smirk...his eyes were always so empty--likes shards of pale blue ice that you would drown in long before you saw anything beneath the cold. They were always hard and made every smirk and sultry smolder look like what it truly was...a mask--something hollow and dead that only existed to placate everyone around him.

At first, his eyes terrified me--when he looks at you...it feels as if he is looking only at your shadow and piecing together everything about you within that frame by what he decides you are. The coldness and blankness of his stare sent chills down my spine and made my hands itch for the feeling of my gun in my hands out of fear of what he truly was--cold and unpredictable. He was both our insider and interrogator--in action, he was either an artist with his knives or he was enough of a marksman to make me worry about my own place on our team...and I've seen how his glare can break even the most fanatical of zealots without him even needing to so much as touch them. He could be ruthless and terrifyingly efficient...he was completely detached from what he did--our commander often referred to him as being "Death on a choke chain"...but those eyes, hard as diamonds, made me fear that the so-called 'chain' was going to break soon and that, when it did, nothing would be able to stop him.

But now...I've seen everything that lies beyond the wall of ice--I've seen the tears that he refuses to shed until he's hit his breaking point after one too many shots of bourbon. I've seen the raw fury and the pure hatred that he relies on to drive him forward--trying to absolve himself of a legacy in his bloodline that even he fears admitting to. I've seen the fear that consumed him whenever any of our unit was in danger. I've seen the grief and guilt overwhelming him when the sniper's bullet hit me when I was trying to cover him...I saw the self-loathing that he could barely hide when he saw my wheelchair.

And I've seen the unbridled joy and relief that all-but radiated off of him when he saw me wake up and call out his name...when I reached up from the hospital bed to wipe away a tear that finally escaped from him--a tear he shed only for me when he would shed none even for himself.

I saw the depth of the love in his eyes that I had spent twenty years being too blind to see...and I finally pulled him down to kiss him and I called him my friend...my best friend...my partner...my love.


End file.
